


On Fate and Flight of Time

by bofoddity



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Helena Larkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofoddity/pseuds/bofoddity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danton and Desmoulins share a drink while time runs out on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Fate and Flight of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helena Larkin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Helena+Larkin).



That day, Théroigne de Méricourt had fled from her house.

Danton and Desmoulins watched as she staggered through Paris, clumsy like a drunkard. From time to time she stopped, blinking in confusion as the winter air bit into her nude body, and after a while she stumbled forward again. Her face was frozen in devastation. She was chanting one word over and over again.

"Traitor."

Danton looked upon Desmoulins, whose face was dark under the weight of thought. His eyes were still on Théroigne. "I believe that's what they called her when they caught her."

Théroigne's wild gaze drifted to their direction and through them, blind to everything except what there was in her mind. It felt strange to remember that they had thought her invincible against defeat.

"Your hearing triumphs over mine," Danton said, wiping briefly at his nose. The cold was becoming too much; he wanted to get indoors. "Do you want to drink?"

Théroigne's voice was starting to hitch up, the whisper growing into a wail as her wavering walk hastened. Desmoulins's forehead ridged into a deeper frown until he finally turned to Danton. "I have wine at my house."

Danton nodded, and they began to walk. When they heard Théroigne's howl come to an abrupt stop, Danton saw Desmoulins flinch.

* * *

"Quiet, mind you," Desmoulins said as they entered his house. "Horace has not been well lately."

The concern in his voice was tentative kind, like he wasn't sure what to do with it. Their lives allowed no time for fatherhood, and emotions not permitted to bloom weren't something that the fierce Desmoulins was used to. Danton had to grin at that.

"I shall whisper, then." He grinned again as Desmoulins shook his head with mirth, and asked: "Is Lucile with him?"

"Of course." But not all the time, as Danton could tell while following Desmoulins into the kitchen; a lone candle on the table betrayed her presence, a faint trail of smoke still wisping towards the ceiling. Desmoulins paid no heed to any of it, instead setting out to light the candle again. "She's a good mother."

"I never doubted that."

Danton took the freedom to sit by the table, looking up at Desmoulins's face as the candle came to life, warm light spilling around them. The frown was gone, but there was still a lot of thought on those lean features, casting shadows of their own.

"I think I need to send them away."

Desmoulins turned to fetch the wine, granting Danton a moment for his shock.

Of the two of them, Danton had always been the one to make an impression with his appearance. A giant whose voice carried over the shrieks of the mob, they described him, but it was the fragile Desmoulins who had the courage and daring of the ancient heroes, standing still when it was time to run, opening his mouth when silence was safe. He had killed his flaws with hardness of an executioner while Danton still lost battles against his own. Desmoulins had been fine with strutting in front of his foes with his family by his side, confident of his invulnerability.

If that certainty had turned into worry, something had gone very wrong. Danton trembled against a sudden chill.

"And you?" he asked when Desmoulins set the bottle on the table and sat down with him. It was a foolish question to ask; of course Desmoulins himself would never leave. He had too many things to say, too much desire to get heard. Fleeing to safety was too much of a sensible thing to do. But it was things other than the obvious answer that Danton was interested in hearing.

"Never." When Danton made no move for the bottle Desmoulins finally took it himself, looking at it like it was interesting. "But I don't like how things are going."

Desmoulins took the bottle to his lips and drank, reaching up to pull his collar open with his free hand. On the side of his pale throat, a thin scratch was healing; the line of it was concerningly even, as if it was from a knife.

"Have you heard of how they speak of Marat these days?" Desmoulins continued. "He was a savior, apparently. And now he's a _saint_." Desmoulins chuckled, sour lines drawing themselves around his mouth. "He was full of spite and he never pretended otherwise. It's pathetic. We were supposed to be above idiocy like that."

"It's displeasing," Danton agreed, peeling the bottle from Desmoulins's fingers. "But that's not what really bothers you."

He took a long gulp from the bottle. The wine was bland, but it burned in his throat like a proper drink did, and when he put the bottle down he caught Desmoulins watching him, forehead set in a questioning frown.

"What bothers you is the fickleness. The shift of loyalties. Marat had no friends left by the time he died, yet he's a saint now." His throat didn't feel warm enough, so he drank again. "What bothers you is that in the end, they don't really care who is an ally and who is an enemy."

The ripple of distress on Desmoulins's face revealed that he didn't need to say the rest, that the next shift of friendships might be their fall.

It had been Danton's own fear for a long time. He was no match for Desmoulins when it came to dividing crowds, but he had the presence, he was an inspirer, and that meant there were people who desired his death. But he didn't stun enough to make people desire his life, and nothing ensured that he wouldn't have to pay for that failure one day.

But Desmoulins, the fool, of course wouldn't fear enough, so Danton would have to do it for him. Fortunately it was something Danton was glad to do.

He pushed the bottle away from reach and leaned to his friend. The candle flame was growing weaker, filling the room with dusk, but Desmoulins's face was clear in his eyes, every line and edge and curve. "You should leave."

"Never." Desmoulins was unhappy, Danton could tell, but his spirit was intact. It stared defiantly back at Danton.

"In the end they will turn on each other," Danton insisted. They had both seen it, followers turning into foes. Men who had praised Desmoulins for his attack on Bastille had been happy to later demand for his permanent silence. Ignorance wasn't something he had a right to hide behind. "All it takes is time. There is no shame in preserving yourself."

"Then why aren't you leaving?"

"Hypocrisy is quite easy for me."

A smile rose on Desmoulins's lips, a sight Danton had almost forgotten.

"I will not go." Desmoulins stood up from his chair, head nearly rising over the reach of the light as he stepped closer to Danton, setting an elegant hand on his shoulder. Danton had trouble seeing his expression, but the grip of Desmoulins's hand told him he was confident. "You have to find something else to be hypocritical about, I'm afraid."

The fight was lost, but Danton couldn't help but try. "I don't think it's too much to wish to see you safe with your family."

Desmoulins's smile took a sharper edge. "But that's not what you want."

Danton's mind searched for objections, but he was already caught. The hand moved down to his forearm, urging him to stand. He rose and, his pretenses dropped, drew Desmoulins to him, smelling his scented breath before grasping Desmoulins's mouth with his own.

Their lives didn't allow affairs, so they didn't have one. But the desire was nevertheless there, had always been, sated by grand talk and love for France. Nothing seemed to be enough now as he teased Desmoulins's lips apart, pushing in to taste his wine-soaked tongue. He brought his hand to Desmoulins's neck, rubbing his thumb over the rough line of the scratch ( _nail mark_ , he noted, relieved), a motion which goaded Desmoulins's fingers to sink deeper into his arm, his teeth to clash against Danton's mouth. His breaths stung sharp and excited in his chest when Desmoulins pulled away, eyes burning with agitation.

"My wife," Desmoulins breathed, "is upstairs."

A statement, not a scolding. Desmoulins's tongue stroked over his lips, causing Danton's mouth to go dry.

"Or at the doorway." They both fell silent to listen for a confirmation, for an approving laughter, for an exclamation. None came. Danton swallowed and willed his voice to work. "I should leave."

"Yes." Nodding, Danton prepared to move, but was halted when Desmoulins's hand laid on his shoulder again. Desmoulins's eyes were still bright with need, stilling Danton to his place. "But because you don't want to, you might as well stop with that hypocrisy for a while."

Hard though he tried, Danton found no arguments for that.

* * *

The night was dark when Danton left Desmoulins's house, the tender orange of the sunrise still far away. Silence was absolute; he listened to it, and hoped that a long time would pass until fate finally turned on them.


End file.
